


with a hand between your thighs

by desiredeffect



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, actually potential dub-con?, mindless porn, seriously what more do you need to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desiredeffect/pseuds/desiredeffect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently the UNSC had been getting creative with experimentation ever since the Sarcophagus incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with a hand between your thighs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mimi), [Larissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larissa/gifts).



> I got talking to Mimi one day about mindless brot3 porn, and it somehow turned into a sex pollen fic. Encouraged both by her, and the lovely Larissa, this has been a long week of stress of porn and me getting utterly, utterly, confused about how people manage not to lose limbs while trying to work with two other people in a sexual manner.
> 
> Uh, I hope it's not OOC, critique and comments welcome and appreciated as always!

He wants to say that he saw this coming.

However, that would be a fucking outrageous lie, because why would anyone ever see this coming?

Not the fairly routine part – getting shot at had rather rapidly been added to the now ever expanding list of things ‘that happened frequently’ – but the post-mission fallout was unforeseen. Wash is pretty certain that, in actuality, none of them have ever seen something quite like this.

Apparently the UNSC had been getting creative with experimentation ever since the Sarcophagus incident.

“Ah, _fuck_.” York is swearing to himself, not exactly noteworthy material these days either, but the fact all their armour is covered head-to-toe in some sort of glittery green paste? That’s new. North turns to face him, and Wash can only assume his expression is a mix of sardonic amusement and frustration behind the helmet.

It sure it _his_ default look at the moment.

“We heard you the first twenty times, York,” North murmurs, his voice holding the amusement Wash’d guessed at, “you need new material.” There’s something else there that Wash can’t quite place.

He rubs a hand through his hair, distracted by the shimmer of green as North and York descend into mindless bickering (also routine, sometimes Wash forgets he’s assigned to these tasks with _adults_ ), and wipes his hand across his face absently. He grimaces, more to himself than anyone else, when he realises he’s spread the foamy substance all across his bare skin exposed by the lack of helmet.“Four Seven Niner?”

“What?” She responds flatly from the cockpit. Her tone has never really changed beyond indifferent sarcasm, but today, at least, it seems slightly warmer. There’s something new to take out of this entire mess then.

“Decontamination,” he mutters as loud as he can while ignoring York’s exasperated groan, “I think we’re going to need it.”

She grunts, which could mean anything from agreement to _if you have fucked with my ship in any way, I will kill you_. “Copy that.”

This can only end catastrophically.

—

They’d been hustled into quarantine upon re-arrival on the _Mother of Invention,_ despite York’s bitching for the contrary, armour carefully peeled off and handed in for sterilisation before being shunted into an observation room. Four Seven Niner had been admitted into another quarantine room – apparently there are different rules for girls and guys, but Wash had known that anyway. They’d stood to attention, as much as one can in their underwear without being inappropriate, while the Director had questioned North on the specifics of the mission failure through three-inch thick glass.

You couldn’t say the medics aren’t paranoid.

Wash had this phantom itching underneath the surface of his skin, and resisting the urge to scratch absently at his arms meant he ended up tuning out of most of the lecture.

He’d felt his skin flushing (was it a few degrees hotter in here?) the residual heat staining his cheeks a dull red.

“You will be contained until Recovery permits your exit. I _highly_ suggest you take the time to get your facts straight, Agents. You are dismissed.”

They don’t move from the stance until the door on the other side of the glass has shut behind him, but it’s _definitely_ hot, and Wash is kinda—uh.

“Hey, Wash?” North’s voice strikes him out of his reverie so fast, that he takes a startled step backward like a skittish animal. “Might as well get comfortable, seems like we’re gonna be here a while.”

York looks unimpressed. “At least we got separate stalls for showers, so no calling shotgun for first turn. You coming?”

He glances toward the showers, a sealed off room on the left, then at the bathroom on the right, and anywhere that isn’t below his waist. Coming sounds like a really good idea. Right now.

 _Fuck_.

“Yeah, _yeah_ , I’ll be with you in a sec.”

Wash stumbled into the bathroom, hitting the lock switch to barricade himself in, and trying desperately not to make a noise as he shoved his underwear somewhere down around his knees.

He comes from just the feeling of his fingers wrapping lightly around the head of his cock.

It doesn’t help; he realizes after a moment, it was more the spark that ignites the fire instead.

Catastrophic, at this point, doesn’t even begin to cover this SNAFU.

—

“Take your time, Wash.” Wash can hear York’s know-it-all grin from the middle stall as the Freelancer clearly registers the slight squeak of Wash’s bare feet on the linoleum. “Man, you give a guy one piece of barely-working tech and, suddenly, he thinks he never has to do anything on his own again.”

“Lay off him, York,” North laments almost immediately, and there’s something in his tone that has Wash sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

York clearly doesn’t receive the message. “I’m just saying that it’s a travesty is all. All of this tech compensating for every single thing.”

“Because in your case it has something it definitely has to compensate _for_.”

Wash turns the nozzle, the sharp sting of cold water doing nothing to ease the aching heat spreading out along his limbs as he stifles the groan that threatens. He really wishes they’d stop making use of the double entendre.

“That was low, asshole, I have no issue about coming in there.”

“Heh, I’m terrified.”

Wash places his head on the cracked tiling and maybe, hopefully, the universe would be so kind as to swallow him right now. He’s stupidly hard, and he wants to claw his way out of his own skin, and they are _not_ making it easy to stay in control. The water isn’t helping either; the spray skidding across his skin seems weirdly more … _pleasuring_ than normal.

“Oh _bite me,_ ” York snaps, and Wash would really like to, just place his teeth along York’s collarbone and bite down, teasing the marks left behind with his tongue as York—

“I know where you’ve been, York,” North replies perhaps a hint too smugly, “and believe me, I wouldn’t.”

Wash mutes his own moan by digging his teeth into the skin of the arm braced along the wall to keep him steady – he might as well bite _something_ – and curls his fingers around himself again. He tries to move slowly, keep a rhythm, but _fuck_ this is getting ridiculous. He counts himself lucky that he’s in the goddamn shower.

“Wash, hey, _Wash_ ,” York raises his voice and calls, as if he’s deaf. Maybe they’ve been trying for his attention for a while but he’s been a little pre-occupied with coming against the tiling.

Wash hopes his voice doesn’t sound as utterly wrecked as he thinks it does as he opens his mouth and says, “What?”

“What’re you doing, jerking off in there? Get out already. I’m going to spank North’s ass at poker and you have to make sure he doesn’t cheat.”

Maybe he can just drown himself in the shower. That would actually probably _save_ his pride.

—

He huddles himself up on one end of the trio of shitty army cots provided by medical to at least give the illusion of comfort, knees pulled as tight against his chest as his erection will allow. That is to say, not very much at all. His vision is swimming, head hurting, and he fucking hatesbeing reduced to this, this _thing_. This slack-jawed organism with little on its mind but getting off.

He doesn’t quite know why he’s hoping they won’t notice. Well no, he does, and his chest feels like it’s seizing painfully within his chest at their inevitable situational awareness. He hates being embarrassed, and they’d never let him live it down. He shifts slightly, taking the weight off his right side and, luckily, the resulting muffled whimper is covered by North laying his cards down flush and York’s loud huff of displeasure, “Full house!”

York responds by throwing his hand of cards at North’s head in a dazzling display of maturity, but he’s smiling easily. Wash twists his hands in the sheets, gripping tighter and tighter until he’s certain his knuckles are white. He’s pretty sure his palms are sweating.

Maybe he could get off without them noticing, hard enough to effectively kick himself in the teeth and knock himself out.

He’s willing to admit to himself that probably won’t happen.

“Wash?”

His head snaps up, blinking back against the harsh fluorescent lighting until he focuses enough to realize North’s standing over him, _looming_ almost, and his arms casually crossed over that ridiculously broad chest. Wash peers past him, where York is gathering up the cards, but clearly paying careful attention. Wash glances away quickly, hoping to avoid their gaze.

He drags himself together, pulling enough self-control over himself for a thin veneer of sanity and an even tone. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

“You good? You’re acting all out of the ordinary.” North is frowning in his big-brotherly manner that Wash usually finds hilarious. “Did you manage to catch something in _space_ of all places?”

Wash wants to laugh at how utterly _stupid_ all of this is, would if he could muster the effort to. If, what he _really_ wanted to do, wasn’t actually to get down on his knees and _beg_.

“It’s nothing,” he inhales shakily before continuing, “I’m …fine.”

North unfolds his arm, sitting down at the edge of the cot and leaning in while Wash subtly tries to pull away and get closer simultaneously. He’s not sure if he’s radiating _don’t touch me_ vibes, but he’s not sure what he’d do in case of skin-to-skin contact so he figures, as much as his rational brain can gather, that it’s probably best not to find out.

“York?” North asks, not breaking the stare Wash can feel burning into his skin. The question proves, at least, that York was listening when he steps over without that split second hesitation, cards still being shuffled into order with his hands. “Does Wash look ‘fine’ to you?”

York places the cards on one of the other spare cots, a haphazard pile of upturned hearts and clubs, before taking the opposite side of the bed, inches away from Wash’s thighs. He swallows down the quiet whine at sudden clamouring proximity of _two_ people by biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, and places his hand strategically over his underwear.

This isn’t good.

“Now that you mention it, he looks a little sick.” York frowns in response. “Maybe he really did catch something.”

“Wash?”

He twists his hands further in the sheets because _fuck_ , here comes the humiliation. Wash knows how he must look as he raises his head, and he catches the way North’s eyes flare, even as York quietly exclaims, “Holy _shit_.”

He barely has time to wet his lips before there’s a hand pressing against his forehead, North’s, which almost provides a cooling counterpoint against the heat that’s been building in his stomach. He can’t stop the low moan that escapes him this time.

“Oh _fuck,_ I—” Part of him should be horrified, he thinks with his potentially last logical thought, as he practically lunges forward, teeth catching on North’s bottom lip. The kiss is brutal – too wet, too hard, too much – but he can’t stop, sinking his fingers into the short strands of North’s hair and tugging. He doesn’t think it would be too much to ask to climb inside North’s skin completely but there are hands on his waist, his shoulders, shifting him backwards, and Wash catches the look on North’s face.

North’s mouth is spit-slick and swollen, but his eyes are intent. “Do you think it’s the—“

“ _Yeah_ ,” York cuts him off, “definitely.” There’s an audible catch in his breath as Wash grinds backwards. York’s hands are on his waist, flexing almost absently against his skin as North leans across. Wash would only have to cover inches, bets his reflexes could beat both of theirs, even momentarily before those hands clamped down for sure. He has to admit, he wouldn’t mind that outcome _either_.

“Wash, _hey_ – c’mon, maybe you should just …rest,” he finishes, lamely.

“North, _please_ , you’ve gotta—“ he twists his head around to catch York’s eye, those hands suddenly digging into his hips and he lets out a frustrated, inarticulate noise. “I feel like I’m dying, I _need_ this, and fuck, I swear, just _please_. Just shut _up_ and _don’t talk,_ just—lemme—“

If York and North say anything with the look they share, it isn’t given voice, but North moves immediately afterward. He paces around the other side of the third cot and kicks it across, even as York finally does grip Wash’s hips properly (too hard, they’re going to leave bruises and Wash doesn’t fucking care) and shifts him around until York’s underneath him, Wash’s legs bracketing his thighs, and a tentatively sly grin on his face.

_He wants me to._

That’s almost enough to wipe away Wash’s surging guilt, as he places a hand on York’s shoulder, watching that grin widen by nanometres, and he’s lost. He mashes their mouths together, hard, grinds down against York’s instinctive hip tilt because he wasn’t fucking kidding about needs. He breaks the kiss, the sharp ragged edge of York’s breathing a shock of pleasure down his spine, and mouths his way down York’s neck, pausing only to nip at the pulse point thrumming in the column of his throat.

The bed dips, York shifts, but Wash ignores it in favour of biting down on York’s collarbone, licking in wide stripes across the skin before latching his teeth along it and sucking. York lets out the barest garbled noise, twists his hips up, and he’s _hard_ like that doesn’t make Wash’s head spin. Fingers splay along Wash’s hips, wider than York’s, easing him back in an ever slow drag, and Wash softens the whine of displeasure against York’s skin.

“Easy tiger,” North hums quietly and, _oh_ , _“_ we’ll get there.”

York shifts up onto his elbows as much as the combined weight of two people allows, and Wash has a moment to scrape his teeth over the jut of York’s hipbone before North is hauling him up against his chest. York’s eyes are dark, tongue darting out against his lips as he reaches out and snags the waistband of Wash’s boxers.

He really can’t be blamed for what happens, and there’s a huff of quiet amusement against his neck, while York just raises an eyebrow in a questioning gesture.

“Don’t worry,”The breathless edge of hysteria in his voice is tempered by the drag of North’s teeth along his shoulder. “That’s not even a minor setback.”

York’s other eyebrow is threatening to join the one already in his hairline, but North is _really_ distracting, and Wash’s refractory period is already at _zero_ , dick still straining against now ruined boxers. Wash turns his head, the angle awkward and straining his neck, and lets North’s mouth cover his own, pressing back with as much strength as he can muster as North groans softly.

York wriggles himself out from underneath them, bending at an angle as he shifts to his knees so that he can lick a wet stripe up across Wash’s abdomen. He strips himself of his boxers, kicks them out of the way, and commandeers North’s hands to help the slide off material over Wash’s hips, down his thighs. Wash’s breath hitches as the movement shifts him back and North’s cock slides over the seam of his ass.

_“Oh, God.”_

North’s hands are still on his hips, tense without being restrictive, and Wash can’t help pushing back in search of that friction, feeling the way North’s own hips flex with restrained impulse even as York leans up into Wash’s space, inches away from Wash’s mouth. Wash doesn’t hesitate, he curls a hand around the nape York’s neck, fingers twisted in his hair, and pushes their mouths together. He licks passed York’s lips, slides his tongue around York’s teeth, shudders as North’s teeth dig into the top of his spine. Wash moans, caught low in his throat, and York’s muttering under his breath. “ _Easy_ , Wash.”

He doesn’t want easy, the way North’s dick is rubbing against him makes him want many things, but easy doesn’t equate in any of them. He rubs an absent finger across the skin on York’s neck that is rapidly darkening in colour, watches as York’s eyes flutter shut only fleetingly before they snap open again.

“York,” North teases quietly, “don’t look so shocked.” He squeezes gently then, and Wash squirms in their grip.

“ _North_ ,” he begs, and North obliges by re-arranging his grip around both Wash and York to start a slow slide. Wash feels overstimulated, skin hot to the touch, too many sensations as he tips his head back against North’s shoulder, feels a reassuring bite at the edge of his jaw accompanied by one at the base of his throat and he can’t stop the loud whimper.

He’s not sure where to go, not even entirely certain he can move beyond backwards against North or forwards into the fucking dizzying sensation of being trapped against York’s dick with North’s hand, but the tongue trailing down his throat meets the one sliding up and suddenly—

“ _Fuck_ ,” he pants, mesmerised by the way their tongues coil around each other, and York is _smirking_ like he’s holding the world’s greatest secret.

“That,” York strangles out as he extricates himself from North’s mouth with a wet noise that travels directly to Wash’s cock, “sounds like the _best_ idea you’ve ever had.”

York hits the mattress with a dull thud as Wash pushes him down with a low growl, the deep rumble of North’s laughter as he moves to accommodate Wash’s sudden actions echoing in his ears. The bed dips, but Wash is too focused on sucking York down in one greedy mouthful to pay attention.

“Should’ve kept your mouth shut,” North says, tone heavy with amusement (and trailing further away?), but York can only flip him off as he tangles a hand in Wash’s hair, pulling just shy of painful as Wash works his way down to the base and drags his mouth back up again.

He knows York wants to push up, can feel it in the way York tilts his hips ever so slightly, but he’s holding back. Wash’d respect that normally, but fuck _that;_ he wants it and he’s going to get it _._

“Wash, _Wash._ ” York’s fingers are scrabbling in the bed sheets, twisting in the material reminiscently of Wash’s earlier encounter, and the sounds York’s making make his dick throb. York’s legs splay wider, allowing Wash easier access as he slides his tongue across the slit, and _shit_ , how this must look.

“It’s not _terrible_ ,” North says a moment after, and Wash whips his head around, ignoring York’s loud complaint of protest, to find North blinking at them from the end of the bed. “You said that aloud, in case you were wondering.” He’s holding a bottle of lube in one hand that he casually tosses at the both of them. There’s no assumption in his tone, more of a gentle curiosity as he murmurs, “I thought this might be useful.”

He wishes he could find the necessary thought to be ashamed, as he snatches the bottle and rolls over, but as he slicks up his fingers and spreads his legs, he realises he doesn’t really care. He a slides a coated finger over his hole and can’t contain the gasp as he presses in slowly.

“ _Christ_ , Wash,” York sounds stunned and North hums lowly in agreement. “How do – you should fucking see yourself.”

“Just fucking _get over here,”_ he bites out from between clenched teeth. It’s been a while since, well, it doesn’t matter, all the does is that they’re both clambering over onto the cot, North’s gripping his thighs as York kisses Wash once, open mouthed and sloppy.

“Your call, Wash.” York has enough sense of mind to move, as Wash doesn’t need to be told twice. He removes his fingers, teeth digging hard into his bottom lip  as he sits up, and pushes North up against the angle of the head of the cot and the wall, easily, like he was prepared for this, before settling almost immediately between his thighs. He glances over his shoulder once at York, who inclines his head ever so slightly like that doesn’t make Wash’s skin prickle with heat and he needs this _now_ , then he turns to the task at hand, licking into North’s mouth briefly before biting his way down North’s chest.

He feels York settle behind him, the sharp click of a bottle-top and hands hooked around his thighs. He’s pulled back onto his knees, and even the thought of what’s going to happen is making Wash leak over the sheets. He licks a wet stripe up the underside of North’s cock, listens to the way he inhales sharply, a minor distraction from the now insistent press against his ass.

York hisses as Wash pushes back against him, holds himself still as Wash sinks back onto him, and Wash can’t see his face, but North can, and his expression speaks volumes. Wash can’t stop the wanton moan that pours out of his throat when York moves in a tiny, quickly aborted thrust, and it’s been a while but _god,_ it’s an almost perfect ache, even as he breathes out hard through his nose.

“Take your time,” North’s says quietly to the _both_ of them, grunts when Wash’s response is to close his mouth over the tip and suck once, twice, because he’s so fucking _over_ taking his time. He smiles around North’s dick, shifts forward ever so slightly then back, the cluster of muttered swears and deep groans like a fucking victory orchestra in his head.

The rhythm itself is easy to fall into, he thrusts against York, and uses the subsequent forward momentum to swallow down North, and it’s easier than breathing. G _od_ , he’s almost sorry he willingly put himself in the middle, _almost_ , but as it stands, he wouldn’t fucking be anywhere else _._

Not that York, or North, are complaining; York’s hips fitting snugly against Wash’s ass, and North’s head tipped backed against the quarantine wall. York is swearing under his breath, but Wash ignores him, glancing up instead at North who is watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, mouth slack around the edges. When he catches Wash’s gaze, he squeezes them shut, then opens them again, mouth working to say something beyond the breathless, inarticulate noise.

 _Fuck,_ it _burns_ inside him, sucking in light and heat and every _inch_ of his being into the miniature quasar that his body has become. He lets it gather, fast and slick, with North’s hand in his hair, York’s hips pushing forward with a tight grip on his waist, his own hands pressed into North’s chest, fingernails dug tightly into North’s skin.

“Fuck, _Wash_.”

He groans around North then, loudly, the tightly contained heat unravels inside him, slowly at first as it sweeps along his nerves inch by inch. He comes with a loud whimper that turns into a shout as North pulls away, York’s hand closing around his dick and works him through it with gentle pumps of his fist as Wash’s vision whites out momentarily.

His head is resting on North’s shoulder, and _Jesus_ , he feels completely wrung out, like he’s gone consecutive rounds on the training floor with no armour, but he feels York twitch behind him, and he nods, steeling himself before pushing back up onto his hands. He can’t deny them _anything_ , has never really been able to.

York eases himself back in gently and pauses, which gives Wash enough time to wrap his hand around North before he starts up again, a manoeuvre that has Wash moaning against North’s skin, even as a big hand closes over his own.

It’s a few easy strokes, North doesn’t squirm as much as much as Wash would imagine York would, but _shit_ , if he doesn’t look fucking fantastic, back arched, body drawn taught like a bowstring as he comes all over his chest. Wash has half a moment to admire it before he’s pulled back into it by York’s erratic hip spasm.

“Fuck.” York holds, breathless, for one moment as he thrusts back in, _hard_ , before he goes boneless, enough sense to catch himself before they collapse on each on each other.

Wash is wrecked, can’t quite seem to keep his eyes open, even as York shifts out from behind him with a strangled hiss, the only sign of discomfort or loss, and clambers up beside North. North, whose arms are locked underneath Wash’s armpits, hauling him up so he can curl in between the both of them. North’s fingers are trailing a light pattern across his side, and York’s grin is sated, a snuffle of laughter muffled against the back of his hand when Wash yawns.

“You clocking out, Wash?”

Wash flips him off, but yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

—

When people think about Wash, if they do, he’s not really saying that they have to, because they _don’t_ , but if they did, they’d never be able to say he isn’t at least dedicated to his job. Both his actual Job and his newfound job of _avoiding people_.

It’s not really that hard, to be honest.

Quarantine had received the results back about chance of infection being around about _never_ , and they’d been interrogated about it separately by the medics, then by the Director himself upon their release back onto the _Mother of Invention_.

Neither interview had been particularly pleasant nor had Wash never really been a fan of having his brains picked. They’d been quiet, thoughtful, and he had never deliberately told a lie during the course of either one, unless, of course, a lie by omission counted as a failure, but he wasn’t about to mention the … _thing_ that had happened in that room.

That had been four days ago.

He punches the target, a little more forcefully then intended, and ends up overshooting his next target by half an inch. He takes a breath – several – to casually remind himself that thinking about York biting into his skin is something that is _never again_ going to happen, and mentally shakes himself back into it.

Wash takes a short breath, ignores the way his armour rubs uncomfortably against his skin so much like the guilt currently gnawing rather heavily on his insides.

He’s off kilter, his calibration for predicting target movements lower, and FILSS sounds almost disappointed when his efficiency scores start to drop a deviation below their normal outcome. He really needs to quit.

“Round complete. A decrease in efficiency of three point eight per cent that round, Agent Washington.”

“Yeah, I got it FILSS,” he bites out, “close program. We’re done for today.”

“Acknowledged.”

“She’s a hardass when she wants to be, isn’t she, York?” North voice floats across the training room floor, and Wash takes a second to calm the sudden hitch in his breath, lifting off his helmet and tucking it under one arm.

“Who, FILSS, or Wash?” York returns glibly, slightly closer.

Wash closes his eyes, curls his fingers into a loose fist against his side. He’s willing to bet they’re not wearing armour; he could take them if he wanted to.

“York,” North says warningly, and Wash opens his eyes to find York  _right there_ , contemplating him with an irritating expression of curiosity.

“What? It’s been so long, I was just reacquainting myself with what he looks like.”

He’s been waiting for this, had hoped to get out of this unscathed, and understood that realistically that was unlikely. He swallows tightly around the blockage in his throat. Maybe he hasn’t actively been trying to avoid people so much as this _entire situation_.

“Can you just get it over with?” he snaps instead of humouring York, because he’s tired, and guilty, and he’d really just quite like to throw himself out an airlock. Or them. Them would be an acceptable end to this conversation as well.

“We,” North starts, as he circles around in Wash’s peripheral vision and wisely keeping his distance, “recognise that the situation was not the greatest.”

Wash narrows his eyes, automatically on the defensive. “Were you expecting a written thank you note?”

“Were we that bad?” York asks, folding his arms over his chest, and Wash tries not to roll his eyes at how childish that sounds.

“Is that all you want? _You were great_ ,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I greatly appreciated you helping me out of the rut I was in, thanks for letting me take advantage of you.”

“That isn’t it, Wash,” North says evenly, pacifyingly.

York’s nodding his head sagely, and he licks his lips once. “Despite your apparent opinions, we _are_ adults, and capable of making rational, thought out decisions. Surprisingly, you _letting_ us do anything doesn’t really factor into most of it. ”

“I should have—“ he starts to protest, wants to say _I’m sorry, I didn’t want to,_ but it dies in his throat at the looks on their faces and he realises with a certain amount of chagrin that he’s lost control of this conversation. If he ever had it in the first place.

“Although,” York adds, “we’re not _not_ letting you do it to us, again. You _wrecked us_ , for lack of a better term.”

“Oh, for the love of— _York_!” North’s voice is muffled by the distinct noise of his palm hitting his forehead. “What did I tell you about new jokes?”

York glances over Wash’s shoulder, presumably at North, before focusing on Wash again. There’s a tiny hint of slyness on his face, and Wash  _remembers_ that look, it’s been in his head ever since York had shifted underneath him four days ago. Since North’s hands had been placed on his hips, had left bruises he can _still_ see when he looks in the mirror.

 _…ah, shit_. 


End file.
